


Like Father, Like Son

by Scrawlers



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Anime)
Genre: (Professor Sycamore does not actually appear, Found Family, Gen, Humor, Post-Canon, but trust me when I say that his relationship with Alan is still a prime focus of this fic)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-12-01 09:18:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11483352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scrawlers/pseuds/Scrawlers
Summary: Cosette takes Alan to Boutique Couture to get him something nice to wear for his Champion challenge and (in her mind inevitable) induction ceremony. Things don't go as planned.





	Like Father, Like Son

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place about eleven months post-canon, when Alan is sixteen. (Specifically, it takes place in April, a couple months shy of his seventeenth birthday.) Cosette is about four years older than he is in my headcanon, which makes her twenty here.
> 
> Also, while it isn't necessary to read that one before reading this one, note that this does take place after another fic of mine, "You'll Get There in Time".

It wasn’t unusual for Cosette to ask Alan to go shopping with her.

She never asked him to go shopping for personal reasons. Each and every time she asked, it was always because they needed to pick up something for the lab. One day it was because they were running low on ingredients to make a special food the grass-types needed for their diet, and another day it was because they were out of pens because a poochyena had decided that pens were excellent chew toys (and they needed refills on other office supplies besides). Truthfully, Cosette could run many of these errands on her own, but ever since she had first started working at the lab she had a habit of asking Alan to accompany her. He didn’t mind; buying supplies for the lab was important for all of them, and sometimes Cosette could use help carrying things back. Besides, even if she didn’t really need his help, provided he wasn’t in the middle of doing something he still didn’t mind going along with her on the errand. She was good company, even if they weren’t super close.

So when she asked him to go shopping that day, he had agreed without thinking much of it. It wasn’t until he realized that they were on the opposite end of the city of the holistic food store where they bought ingredients for the pokémon food, as well as in the opposite direction of all the supply shops where they normally restocked the office and other laboratory supplies, that it occurred to him that Cosette hadn’t said precisely  _where_ she wanted to shop that day. And just as he opened his mouth to ask what it was they needed, she paused in her stride, and then smiled wide before she started forward again, a little skip in her step. Alan looked up at the shop she was headed towards, and stopped in his tracks.

“Boutique Couture?”

Cosette stopped just before the door sensors would have activated to permit her entry, and turned back to face him with a sheepish smile on her lips.

“Um, yes! I thought—I figured we could go clothes shopping today.”

Alan frowned. It wasn’t impossible that they were low on safety gear without him knowing (he hadn’t personally run through their gloves or the spare lab coats in a while), but while that was true—

“I don’t think they sell lab coats or other safety gear here. We’d be better off checking the equipment store on the other side of town, or ordering online.”

Cosette laughed, though she covered her mouth with her fist to try and hide it. “I didn’t mean laboratory clothes. I meant  _clothes_ clothes—nice clothes. I thought we could go shopping for nice, non-work clothes today.”

Alan furrowed his brow. “Why?”

“Oh . . . no real reason, I guess, except . . .” Cosette looked him up and down, and Alan—his hands in the pockets of his lab coat, for he hadn’t left his behind as Cosette had hers—didn’t miss it.

“What?”

“Well—you’re taking your Champion challenge in a week, right?” she asked, and he nodded. “I think it’s a sure bet you’ll win, and Sophie agrees, and—”

“It’s not a sure bet I’ll win,” Alan interrupted. “You and Sophie have been talking about this?”

Cosette rolled her eyes. “Of  _course_ we have. One of our own is going to be Champion—”

“I might not—”

“—there’s no way we wouldn’t talk about it. But that’s besides the point. Sophie and I were talking, and—you know there’s an induction ceremony for new Champions, right?”

Alan nodded.

“It’s a big deal,” Cosette said. “There’s the actual announcement ceremony, and then I think there’s generally a parade or something along those lines—”

Alan felt his stomach drop. “What?”

“B-But that might be optional!” Cosette said hastily, waving her hands in front of her. “The parade, I mean. It’s been so long since Diantha was inducted that I can’t really remember anymore. But, parade aside, there’s still the formal announcement, and that will not only be public to some degree, but I’m sure it will be broadcast on television. Everyone in Kalos will see it. It’ll likely even make international news, don’t you think?”

“I guess.” He hadn’t thought of it much until that moment, actually, and in truth the idea didn’t excite him. Then again, it wouldn’t be the first time he was on international news, and at least this time it wouldn’t be an emergency report. That was something.

“If that’s the case,” Cosette went on, “then you should have something to wear. Um, well, actually, even if it isn’t on international news you’ll need something to wear, and so—”

“I have things to wear,” Alan said, and when Cosette blinked in surprise, he clarified, “I’ll just wear my normal clothes.”

It was small, fleeting, and he could tell it was a reflex that she quickly tried to rein in, but Cosette winced. “Um—Alan, you can’t—”

“What?”

“Your normal clothes won’t really . . .  _work_ for something like this.” Cosette wrung her hands, and took a step closer to him. “You need something . . . nice.”

He frowned. “My normal clothes are nice. What’s wrong with them?”

“Nothing!” Cosette said quickly, but even if that was what she  _said_ , he didn’t think she would be skirting around dissing him if she really thought there was nothing wrong with his clothes. “It’s just that they’re not really . . .  _formal_ , or not—they’re not the level of nice they need to be for an induction ceremony. You have casual clothes—clothes suitable for traveling, or work, or recreation, but I’ve never—and Sophie hasn’t—seen you wear anything suitable for an event like this.”

“What do you mean?”

“For fancy dinners and events, your clothes need to be . . . fancy. They need to have a certain level of style, and sophistication. You can’t attend a special ceremony wearing jeans, converse shoes, a scarf and a lab coat over a regular shirt.” She paused, eying him, and then amended, “A couple of regular shirts.”

“Why not?”

“Because—!” Cosette sighed. “It’s just . . . not right, exactly, or polite. It doesn’t give a very good impression. It’s a special event, so it’s only right to dress up for it. You look special to show that you recognize that the event itself is special. It’s polite, it’s respectful, and it can even be fun.” She smiled. “Shopping for clothes and trying on new things in the dressing room is always fun.”

Alan crossed his arms and looked away from her, over at the doors to Boutique Couture. In sixteen years he had never stepped foot inside, and thus far he hadn’t felt like he was missing anything. “It doesn’t sound like it.”

“It is,” Cosette insisted. “It really is fun, and—and it won’t take the whole afternoon. We can go for ice cream afterward. And I’m sure we’ll find you something really nice in there—something comfortable, but also appropriate for the situation. Something that will make everyone happy, including Professor Sycamore. I’m sure he wants you to have nice clothes for the ceremony, too.”

Alan looked back at her with a frown. “He’s banned from this store because they think he’s too unfashionable. And he doesn’t care what I wear. He’s never cared so long as I’m warm enough when it’s cold, and happy.”

Cosette sighed, and her shoulders sagged in a way he knew meant she was giving up before she even opened her mouth. “Well, Professor Sycamore’s choice in fashion can be . . .” She trailed off, even as he raised his eyebrows for her to continue, and then changed the subject. “But we’ll find you something really nice—something you’ll like. I promise. Please?”

Alan’s frown didn’t waver. “My clothes are fine,” he said. “And if I’m going to be battling right before—”

“You can battle in these clothes! They have a whole line just for trainers.” Cosette skipped back toward the doors, and wagged her fingers to gesture for him to follow. “I’ll show you. This is a really wonderful boutique—they have all kinds of things in here!”

Alan sincerely doubted that any boutique run by someone who would ban a marvelous person for being too unfashionable—and would even go so far as to write said marvelous person strongly worded letters about how unfashionable he was—could be anything remotely close to “wonderful”. He also felt that a shopping trip of this kind was unnecessary. If his clothes were good enough to battle, work, and hang out in, then they were good enough for whatever induction ceremony he was going to have to suffer through if he won his Champion challenge. But they were already there, and it was clearly important to Cosette that he at least try. He sighed.

“All right,” he said, and Cosette’s eyes lit up. “But this doesn’t mean I’ll buy anything.”

“No, of course not! But I really do think we’ll find something you’ll like.” Cosette beamed as she led the way into the boutique. “Personally, I think you would look really nice in a sharp suit. A suit jacket would look nice, but it might be easier for you to battle in a suit vest. If that’s the case, then if we get a blue dress shirt to bring out your eyes, we can try a black vest—”

“Pardon me, but what are you doing?”

Boutique Couture was one of those shops that was far bigger inside than it had any right being given its outside appearance. Although it was crammed between two buildings like many of the shops in Lumiose, the ceiling was high and the arrangement of the clothing racks and shelves along the walls made the boutique feel enormous. That, combined with the fact that the store was packed with customers, had given Alan the split-second illusion that no one would notice either of them as they made their way into the store, even with Cosette excitedly talking about different outfits she wanted him to try. But that illusion was dashed no more than ten steps into the boutique. As the doors slid shut behind them and Alan’s eyes adjusted to the too-bright lights (somehow harsher than the sun outside) inside the boutique, an employee called out to them as she crossed the floor with all the speed of a liepard that had just spotted prey. She was older than either of them by a good couple of decades, but though there were streaks of gray in her hair she had pulled back into a tight, formal bun. As she neared he looked to the badge pinned to her blazer, and short of bearing an actual name to address her by, it instead bore the words “REGIONAL MANAGER” in large black letters.

Alan glanced over at Cosette, who gave him an alarmed look (no doubt due to how quickly they had been accosted), and then looked back at the regional manager.

“Shopping, apparently,” he told her.

“ _You_?” The manager’s eyes had been trained on him from the moment she called for them to stop, and now she looked him up and down, much as Cosette had outside. But while Cosette had at least tried to be subtle, the manager’s lip curled in distaste as she raked her eyes over him, not bothering to hide either what she was doing or her apparent disgust at what she found. It did nothing to quell Alan’s annoyance at the second scrutiny of the day, and he shoved his hands into the pockets of his lab coat.

Cosette, too, seemed to notice the sudden tension, for she forced an awkward laugh. “Oh—um, that’s—that’s why we’re here. We thought—well, Boutique Couture has the best fashion in all of Kalos—”

“We’re the forerunners of the fashion industry in this hemisphere,” the manager said, and she smiled in a way that was all teeth as she looked over at Cosette. “As the forerunners of the fashion industry in this hemisphere, however, we do have certain . . .” She looked back to Alan, her smile taking on a patronizing turn once again. “. . . standards. It takes a certain type of person to wear our apparel in a way which not only suits the garment, but also continues to represent our brand in a positive and meaningful way.”

“U-Um—”

“Young man,” the manager continued, speaking over Cosette’s stammering, “what is your name?”

His answer—or at least the  _start_ of his answer—was automatic. But even as he opened his mouth to reply, he closed it again with a smile and a little laugh under his breath. His answer wouldn’t change—or at least, it wasn’t  _that_ different, not really—but it wasn’t . . . he hadn’t had many (or any, really) chances to introduce himself lately. It was still new. And despite his annoyance at how the store manager had seen fit to start insulting him when they hadn’t even been in the store for ten minutes, the fact that he  _could_ introduce himself like this now, that he had this chance . . . suddenly, the irritation he had felt was microscopic. He felt so warm, and he couldn’t stop smiling.

“Alan Sycamore,” he said.

Beside him, Cosette smiled as well, and bounced a little on the balls of her feet.

But while the two of them were smiling, the condescending leer dropped from the manager’s face as her mouth fell open. Her eyes widened as she looked him up and down again, and then asked in a scandalized tone, “ _Sycamore_? As in Professor Augustine Sycamore, of the Lumiose Pokémon Lab.”

“Yeah,” Alan said, and just as he couldn’t help grinning in the first place, he couldn’t stop his smile from growing. “He’s my father.”

The shock faded from the manager’s expression as she scoffed in derision. She looked him up and down again, her expression outright scornful.

“Oh, well, that certainly explains it,” she said. “That explains everything quite well enough. I should have known  _he_ had something to do with this.”

Alan felt as if he had just had a bucket of ice water poured over his head. The warm feeling bubbling inside of him that had made it impossible for him to stop smiling was suddenly extinguished, and beside him, he heard Cosette whisper “oh no” as she put her hands over her mouth.

“What are you talking about,” Alan demanded. Cosette put a hand on his arm, and on reflex he shrugged her off.

“Alan,” Cosette said quickly, “maybe we don’t need to continue this conversation.”

“Have you perchance looked at yourself in a mirror today?” the manager asked. Her tone was saccharine now, almost lethally so. “Your ensemble is . . . not the  _worst_ I’ve seen, considering who sired you, but it’s a far cry from decent.”

“According to who?”

“According to—?” The manager laughed, and not kindly. “According to the rest of civilized society. Shall I take this apart piece by piece?”

“Madam,” Cosette interrupted, her voice a bit high, “I don’t think that’s really—”

“A lab coat should never be worn anywhere outside of the laboratory setting for which it is necessary,” the manager said, cutting sharply across Cosette. “That scarf is ostentatious and ill-fitting for lab work. You’re wearing two shirts, which is unseasonable given that it is now spring, and to make matters worse they both appear to be loose fitting and therefore not flattering to your physique. Your pants . . .” The manager sighed, as if physically pained. “If you are working in any kind of professional setting, denim is inappropriate, so your first mistake was wearing jeans. Your second mistake was wearing  _baggy_ jeans, which have been out of date for quite a number of years now. Your third mistake was not only wearing baggy jeans, but jeans that were at one time distressed, but judging from the size of the holes in the knees have long since ceased being distressed and are now in their death throes. Finally, you are wearing converse shoes. Not only are they once again inappropriate for any sort of professional setting, but they’re rather juvenile.” The manager shook her head as she clicked her tongue. “You look like a cross between a teenage ragamuffin and a would-be laboratory assistant, and I can think of no decent parents that would ever let you leave the house looking like that. However, given the upbringing I’m sure you must have had given what man you call your father . . .” She laughed disdainfully, and shook her head. “As I said, it explains it.”

“Wait,” Cosette said, “that’s—!”

“Hmm, maybe,” Alan said, and Cosette put her face in her hands. He hadn’t meant to cut her off (and he did feel a bit bad about it), but it was too late to stop now. The manager could say what she wanted about his outfit—he wouldn’t have worn his favorite comfy jeans out of the house if he cared what people thought about his clothes—but the little insult she threw in at the end of her diatribe marked the  _third_  time she had crossed the line, and in his opinion, crossing it  _once_ was one time too many. There was no way he could let three strikes go. “But it doesn’t explain how you feel qualified to judge how someone looks when your personality is the ugliest thing in this boutique.”

“ _Alan_!” Cosette hissed, as the manager’s eyes bugged. Cosette looked back over at her, and forced as large of a smile as she could. “Madam, I’m—we’re truly sorry—”

“I’m not,” Alan said, and Cosette shot him a frustrated look as she wrung her hands again.

The manager recovered; though her face was still flushed red, she sniffed and adjusted her blazer, as if she could somehow pull it straighter despite it being ironed so well it looked as if she had stuffed pieces of cardboard inside of it.

“Think what you will, but here at Boutique Couture we have standards,” she said. “Only people of a certain caliber can shop in our store and wear our garments, and you do not qualify. Considering what I now know of your background, I can say with certainty you never will.”

“Oh no,” Alan deadpanned. “What a disappointment.”

The manager glared at him, her eyes still bulging a little, and pointed toward the door. “Please do us all the courtesy of removing yourself from this boutique, and do not ever come back.”

“Gladly.”

Without waiting to see if Cosette would follow, Alan turned on the ball of his foot and strode back through the automatic doors. For all that his eyes had seemingly adjusted to the bright lights inside, he still felt a measure of strain release the second he stepped back out into the natural sunlight, and he took a deep breath to release some of the tension in his shoulders. As noisy and bustling as the Lumiose streets were—as much as the air was clogged by exhaust from the taxis and other vehicles—somehow, everything felt so much more peaceful outside.

A hand lightly touched his arm above the elbow, and he looked over at Cosette as she drew her hand away, and wrung her fingers together.

“You aren’t going to get anything?” he asked.

“There’s . . . not much of a point now,” she said. “I wanted to go shopping with you today so we could find something nice for you to wear for your Champion challenge and the induction ceremony, but I don’t know your measurements, and she . . .” Cosette frowned. “I think she’s serious about giving you a lifetime ban. She was really very angry.”

Alan shrugged. “They don’t deserve my money anyway.”

“That’s true,” Cosette said, rocking back on her heels. Alan hadn’t realized it until that second, but the idea that Cosette still liked Boutique Couture despite how the manager had spoken about his father had made something lock inside his chest. With the knowledge now that Cosette agreed that Boutique Couture wasn’t worth their time or money, that lock shattered, and the remainder of the tension in his muscles left.

“I do have some nicer clothes,” he said, and when Cosette looked over to meet his eyes, he said, “Not all of my pants have holes in them. Most don’t.”

Cosette sighed. “It isn’t just about the holes, it’s about . . . about everything. It’s the general style. We can’t have you dressed so casually for such a special occasion.”

“I might not win,” Alan said, but Cosette was shaking her head, and she walked past him to start down the street again. He fell into step beside her.

“There are other boutiques,” Cosette said, and she swung her purse around so that she could rummage through it, producing her pokégear after a moment of searching. “Sophie knows quite a few of them. I’m sure she’ll have some recommendations for other boutiques we can look at to find you something. I’ll give her a call, one moment.”

Alan sighed, but didn’t try to stop her as she quickly dialed Sophie’s number. It really wasn’t bad to spend the day with Cosette, even if they were clothes shopping, and even if they were shopping for “nice clothes” for a ceremony that might not even happen, as sure as Cosette (and Sophie, apparently) seemed to be that it would. Really, so long as Boutique Couture didn’t get a single dime out of him, he was fine with it. So he let her call Sophie, and half-listened as the two of them discussed various boutiques (and Cosette skirted around what had happened at Boutique Couture, only saying that “there was a bit of a . . . kerfuffle” and “Alan’s not allowed back there, ever”). He would look at whatever clothes she wanted him to look at, and would maybe buy something, if they found something reasonably priced that wasn’t too terrible. Maybe. And in the meanwhile, well . . .

As absorbed in her phone conversation as she was, Cosette wasn’t really paying attention to him, so he was able to stop and scratch a furfrou behind the ears. He smiled as it licked his hand, and gave it another pat before he turned to catch back up with Cosette.

All things considered, there were probably worse ways to spend the day.


End file.
